Above and Below
by Sue Pokorny
Summary: Entry for Fête des Mousquetaires "Brothers" challenge by ArcAngel-liberty4all. Aramis finds traditions are made through bonds of brotherhood. It is only fitting to pay tribute to those above and below.


**Above and Below**

Aramis swallowed another mouthful of the sweet brandy, savoring it on his tongue as the notes of plum and cherry reminded him of a home long gone. He held the bottle before him and tilted it, letting a stream of the rich, aromatic liquid spill onto the cold ground as he had done for the other twenty graves. This year there were twenty-one. Twenty-one graves. Twenty-one dead brothers. Twenty-one fallen from Savoy.

He swallowed another sip and lowered himself to the ground next to the newest grave. Though still hard, an early spring had forced the green grass up from the earth, covering the graves with a new promise of life.

If only it was so easy.

Coming to the cemetery on Good Friday morning had become his tradition of honoring the friends who now only lived in his memory. The brandy was of the finest vintage, something he saved for all year so that he could pay a fitting tribute, give them the reverence they deserved. They should not have died in such a way – used as a diversion, their lives unvalued, their sacrifice forgotten.

He took another sip. He would not forget.

He remembered sitting here in years past, the alcohol warming him as he let himself recall each of their faces. Each year the faces had begun to blend and mix with time, distinctive features folding into the stew of memory. He remembered wondering where Marsac was, how he'd been living all those years, if he had moved on, if he had wanted to. Little did he know he would find the answers to his questions just a few short weeks later. And now Marsac was here with them, his soul finally at rest.

" _Better to die a Musketeer than live like a dog."_

Aramis tilted the bottle again, relishing the burn of the brandy as it flowed down his throat, pooling into his stomach like fire. He could taste the plums, just like the brandy his father had distilled for so many years. It was a good vintage – expensive, but worth the price. He had given most of his savings to Agnes and baby Henri so they could have a better life, but he'd kept enough in reserve for this. This was important. This year especially. Last year there had been one still missing – today they were all together again.

" _Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy five years ago, it just took this long for his body to catch up."_

It was true. The man who'd returned to Paris had not been the same man he'd known all those years ago. There had been a deadness in his eyes that had left Aramis cold. He had been living for his revenge – the only thing left to him. It was a deadness Aramis knew well, a look he had seen reflected in the mirror many times before he had found a reason to rejoin the living, forcing the past behind him. Though he could once again relish the warmth of the sun, the beauty of the snow, the peace of the forest, Aramis still felt a deadness in his own heart, a hole where the brothers below this soil would always reside.

When he had first recognized the identity of the assassin who had tried to kill the Duke of Savoy, he had been shocked, seeing a ghost, convinced he would never lay eyes on his old friend again. Shock had quickly turned to anger, and he'd lashed out even as Marsac had tried to explain, had tried to reason with him, begged him to be allowed to present his case.

Discovering Treville's betrayal had been a blow. The Captain would have been well within his rights to bring him up on charges for his assault on the portico, a court marshal would have been well deserved. But despite his culpability, Aramis knew Treville was an honorable man, and he could see how much the guilt of his actions had weighed upon him all these years. It was that guilt that had most probably stayed any retribution for the injuries Aramis inflicted, believing him justified in his anger.

" _We're soldiers, Captain. We follow our orders no matter where they lead..."_

He'd meant what he said. Treville had been following orders, more than likely duped by the Cardinal into revealing their position, unknowingly serving them up for sacrifice. At least he would like to think so, not wanting to believe Treville had intentionally given up his men's lives without trying to find a less… costly… solution. He supposed survivors were unexpected. It would've probably been easier for them to forget, to wash it all away if there had been twenty-two graves in this yard from the start.

But one had deserted and one had returned. A stark reminder of what had been sacrificed.

He took another drink and lay back against the hard ground, the nearly empty bottle resting easily on his stomach. He watched the clouds float through the blue sky, wondering how long it would be before the others came to once again drag him from his melancholy.

He closed his eyes, knowing despite appearances, he was anchored these days, tethered to the living more than the dead. His friends would give him the time he needed, but they would not allow him to wallow for long.

His friends. Athos, Porthos. The two reasons the deadness in his eyes and heart had not been able to take hold and infect the rest of his body. They had stood beside him through it all – not questioning, not demanding he just move on, but silently and relentlessly reminding him with their steadfast presence that he was not among the dead and he had a life to return to when he was ready. It had been for them he had finally broken free of the guilt and sorrow. For them he had finally been able to discover what it meant to live again.

Even after all these years, the grief still remained – perhaps stronger with Marsac now resting beside the others – but his brothers above the ground understood his need to keep the ones below in his heart. They had never denied him this. They knew that a small part of him would always lie here with them, but as long as the rest of him was engaged in the joys of life, they could allow him this quiet tradition.

The soft swish of footsteps on the grass made him smile and he knew his time was up. It was all right. It was enough. He waited as his friends crossed the graveyard, coming to a stop above his head.

He raised the bottle, much lighter than when he'd arrived, his grin widening as it was taken from his hand.

The brandy sloshed in the bottle as it was tilted to eager lips, a hum of appreciation causing his smile to widen.

"A good vintage," Athos intoned. "As expected."

Porthos smacked his lips as he took a drink and Aramis opened his eyes to see the big man wipe the back of his hand across his mouth.

"I'm sure they enjoyed it," he said sincerely, not a drop of sarcasm coloring his tone.

Aramis pushed himself up, reclining back on his elbows as they both dropped to their haunches.

"Duty calls?"

Athos nodded. "We have a missive to deliver near Orléans. D'Artagnan is saddling the horses."

Porthos took another drink, patting a hand on his shoulder. "You ready to go?"

Aramis let his eyes drift across the yard, the rows of crosses casting shadows on the fresh new grass. He missed them. He would no doubt always miss them. But he had vowed to live for them. It was the least he could do to honor their sacrifice.

"I'm ready." He held his arms out, allowing his friends to pull him to his feet. His brothers below would not need him for another year. His brothers above needed him now. It was as it should be. He took the bottle from Porthos, enjoying one more sip of the fine brandy before pouring the rest onto the ground, hoping it was enough to keep them warm until they were all together again.

The End


End file.
